Morgan Rice: A Reign of Steel

Stara ran along the wooden bleachers, jumping higher and higher up the rows, kicking men in the face as they reached up to grab her. As Reece watched her, trying to catch up, he still did not know exactly where she was going, or what her plan could be.

Reece reached the far corner and jumped up onto the bleachers, jumping onto the first wooden row, then the next, then the next, climbing higher and higher, till he was a good ten feet above the crowd, on the farthest, highest wooden bench against the wall. He met up with Stara, and they converged against the far wall with Matus and Srog. They had a good lead on the other soldiers, except for one: he rushed Stara from behind, and Reece lunged forward and stabbed him through the heart, right before he brought a dagger down on Stara’s back.

Stara raised her bow and turned to two soldiers lunging for Reece’s exposed back, swords drawn, and took out them both.

The four of them stood, backs to the wall in the far corner of the room, on the highest bleacher, and Reece looked out and saw a hundred men race across the room, closing in on them. They were trapped now in this corner, with nowhere to go.

Reece did not understand why Stara had led them all here. Seeing no possible means of escape, he was certain that they would soon all be dead.

“What is your plan?” he yelled to her, as they stood side by side, fighting off men. “There is no way out!”

“Look up,” she replied.

Reece craned his neck and saw above them another iron chandelier, with a long rope leading from it all the way down to the floor, right beside him.

Reece’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“The rope,” she said. “Grab it. All of you. And hold on for dear life.”

They did as she instructed, each grabbing the rope with both hands and holding tight. Suddenly, Reece realized what Stara was about to do.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he called out.

But it was too late.

As a dozen soldiers approached them, Stara grabbed Reece’s sword, jumped into Reece’s arms, and slashed the rope beside them, the one holding the chandelier.

Reece felt his stomach drop as suddenly the four of them, clutching onto the rope and each other, shot up high into the air at a dizzying speed, grabbing on for dear life as the iron chandelier plummeted down. It crushed the men below them and propelled the four of them high into the air, swinging from the rope.

The rope finally stopped, and the four of them hung there, swinging in the air, a good fifty feet above the hall.

Reece looked down, sweating, almost losing his grip.

“There!” Stara called out.

Reece turned and saw the huge stained-glass window before them, and realized her plan. The coarse rope cut Reece’s palms, and he started to slip with the sweat. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.

“I’m losing my grip!” Srog called out, trying his best to hold on despite his injuries.

“We need to swing!” Stara yelled. “We need momentum! Kick off the wall!”

Reece followed her lead: he leaned forward with his boot against the wall and together, they shoved off the wall, the rope swinging more and more wildly. They shoved again and again, until with one final kick, they swung all the way back, like a pendulum, and then they all, shouting, braced themselves as they swung right for the enormous stained-glass window.

The glass exploded, raining down all around them, and the four of them let go, dropping onto the wide stone platform at the base of the window.

Standing there, perched fifty feet above the room, the cold air rushing in, Reece looked down below, and on one side he saw the inside of the hall, hundreds of soldiers looking up at them, wondering how to pursue; on the other side he saw outside the fort. It was pouring outside, driving wind and blinding rain, and the drop below was a good thirty feet, certainly enough to break a leg. But Reece, at least, saw several tall bushes below, and he also saw that the ground was wet and soft with mud. It would be a long, hard fall; but maybe they would be cushioned enough.

Suddenly, Reece screamed out as he felt metal piercing his flesh. He looked down and grabbed his arm and realized an arrow had just grazed it, drawing blood. It was a minor wound, but it stung.

Reece turned and checked back down over his shoulder, and saw that dozens of Tirus’s men were aiming bows and firing, arrows whizzing by them now from every direction.

Reece knew there was no time. He looked over and saw Stara standing on one side of him, Matus and Srog on the other, all of them wide-eyed with fear at the drop before them. He grabbed Stara’s hand, knowing it was now or never.

Without a word, all of them knowing what needed to be done, they jumped together. They shrieked as they dropped through the air in the blinding rain and wind, flailing and falling, and Reece could not help but wonder if he’d just leapt from one certain death to another.

Godfrey raised his bow with trembling hands, leaned over the edge of the parapet, and took aim. He meant to pick a target and fire right away—but as he saw the sight below, he knelt there, frozen in shock. Below him charged thousands of McCloud soldiers, a well-trained army flooding the landscape, all heading right for the gates of King’s Court. Dozens of them rushed forward with an iron battering ram, and slammed it into the iron portcullis again and again, shaking the walls, the ground beneath Godfrey’s feet.

Godfrey lost his balance and fired, and the arrow sailed harmlessly through the air. He grabbed another arrow and pulled it back on the bow, his heart pounding, knowing for sure that he would die here today. He leaned over the edge, but before he could fire, a rock cast from a sling flew up and smacked into his iron helmet.

There was a loud clang, and Godfrey fell back, his arrow shooting straight up into the air. He yanked off his helmet and rubbed his aching head. He never knew a rock could hurt so much; the iron seemed to reverberate in his very skull.

Godfrey wondered what he had gotten himself into. True, he had been heroic, he had helped by alerting the entire city of the McClouds’ arrival, buying them precious time. He had maybe even saved some lives. He had certainly saved his sister.

Yet now here he was, along with but a few dozen soldiers left here, none of them Silver, none of them knights, defending this shell of an evacuated city against an entire McCloud army. This soldier stuff was not for him.

There came a tremendous crash, and Godfrey stumbled again as the portcullis was smashed open.

In through the open city gates rushed thousands of men, cheering, out for blood. As he sat up on the parapet, Godfrey knew it was only a matter of time until they came up here, until he’d fight his way to the death. Was this what it meant to be a soldier? Was this what it meant to be brave and fearless? To die, so others could live? Now that he was greeting death in the face, he wasn’t so sure this was a great idea. Being a soldier, being a hero, was great; but being alive was better.

As Godfrey thought of quitting, of running off and trying to hide somewhere, suddenly, several McClouds stormed the parapets, racing up single file. Godfrey watched as one of his fellow soldiers was stabbed and dropped to his knees, groaning.

And then, once again, it happened. Despite all his rational thinking, all his common wisdom against being a soldier, something clicked inside Godfrey that he could not control. Something inside Godfrey could not stand to let other people suffer. For himself, he could not muster the courage; but when he saw his fellow man in trouble, something overcame him—a certain recklessness. One might even call it chivalry.